


A New Career In a New Town

by aactionjohnny



Series: Pete/Billy [2]
Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, idk exactly where I’m going with this but uhhhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-14 11:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16039961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: “And they’ll be sticking together. They’ve made that promise. Drunkenly, sleepily, talking loud despite their closeness, all through the night...”Pete and Billy have a lot of adjusting to do in their new life in the big city.





	1. So I pack a bag, and move on...

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a Bowie song, because it’s Venture Bros, so of course it is. I don’t have a clear plot planned out for this but uhhh expect some feelings.

Their whole life fits into the back of a van. They both knew it wasn’t much, but to see twenty years packed in a back hatch— it just makes their circumstances all the more humbling.

Not that either of them had built an earnest ego before all this. Quietly, they each always knew they were nothing.

Pete drops a cigarette onto the dusty ground and steps on it with his buckled shoe. He only smokes when he’s stressed out. Which of late, has been always. There are worse habits he could turn to, and Billy knows that, so he says nothing.

Together, facing the sunset like a metaphor, they watch the moving van disappear over the flat horizon. It will meet them in New York, eager to crowd another space. 

All they have are some backpacks and their shared Conjecture Cycle; it had taken hours of pleading for St. Cloud to let them keep it. Even though it’s broken, even though they should really scratch the logo off. It’s  _ theirs.  _ The sidecar is derelict, smashed by roadkill far too powerful for its chassis, and they’re left with only the main seat.

“Ya ready?” Pete asks, even if it’s not really a question. They have no choice but to leave behind their empty trailer, stripped of all fond memories. He tosses his bag in the back compartment and swings a long leg over the seat. There’s a dull look to his red eyes, despite their constant, innate glow. He pats the back of the seat with one pale, skinny hand.

“Just like old times…” Billy mumbles. And isn’t he right? They’re aimless again, and they have nothing. At least  _ this _ time, Pete won’t blow all their money.

And they’ll be sticking together. They’ve made that promise. Drunkenly, sleepily, talking loud despite their closeness, all through the night.

As he’s become accustomed to doing, Billy hooks his hand into the crook of Pete’s elbow to boost himself up onto the seat. They’ve been traveling like this on and off for years. It’s like muscle memory, all the ways they manage to be near each other. They’re sticking together, because he’s already lost enough of his limbs.

“Don’t go so fast this time,” he says, short arms wrapping around Pete’s ribs. “You get road rage.” As if seeing two freaks like them barreling down the road wasn’t threatening enough.

He says nothing, just nods as he starts up the electric engine. It’s the last time they’ll leave this place. They’re off to the land of subways, where they won’t have to hold onto one another so tight.

Their goggles on, they begin their journey without so much as a glance at the abandoned trailer. Let St. Cloud do what he wants with it, they’ve decided. They say it doesn’t matter, that it’s just a place, just a tin can. They have to tell themselves it never meant anything at all.

Pete never listens, so why start now? He pushes the speed limit like a man who kind of wants to die. Billy won’t begrudge him that; he’s learned to stop worrying about it. Every time Pete has a meltdown and cracks an empty bottle of wine on the side of their home like a weapon, Billy still wakes up to find him alive, on the couch, lulled to sleep by a DVD menu playing over and over and over again. All he has to do to stop feeling scared is wrap his arms a little tighter around him. And he’s so skinny, sometimes Billy wonders if even his small frame could crush him. Even when Pete is strong and brave, he’s fragile. Ceramic. Porcelain in appearance and touch. And just as Billy has learned to stop worrying, he’s learned to stop caring about the fallout from their closeness. He holds onto him with no more timidity, no more shame. He falls asleep in his bed when he’s just too tired to move. Of all the things in their life that just don’t matter, those are his favorites.

 

The trip takes hours. Long stretches of gravel roads turning into the visceral thunderdome that is the interstate highway system. Pete stays in the passing lane, carefully watching for exits, looking down now and again to make sure Billy’s knuckles haven’t turned white as his own. He always finds himself doing that; checking on him. They’re both grown men, yet they treat one another equally like children.  _ Billy, did you remember to eat? White, don’t try to fix the cable antenna you’ll get vertigo up there.  _ By tonight they’ll have another person to dote on them. Rose, sweet and oblivious. Pete’s thankful for her hospitality, despite how he feels a sense of unease at being so easily welcomed into a family. Even under false pretenses...well, on paper, at least. Rusty once called it a  _ de facto marriage _ , to which Pete vehemently protested. He always gets defensive like that, like he’s got any measure of dignity left to lose. And deep down he knows Rusty’s spot on. Knows he’s the only one being honest. Neither Pete nor Billy have any semblance of a life outside of one another. No wives to come home to, no separate place to go. So what’s the point in fighting it anymore, he wonders. 

Because he’d have to, for once in his life, be honest. He’d have to look inward for a sincere evaluation, and he’s afraid of what else might be waiting for him. Soul-searching is some hippie bullshit he’s not about to try. 

They stop to stretch their legs here and there. No appetite for a real pit stop, and they’re mostly silent. They don’t really talk until they arrive outside of Rose’s house, concerns at the sight of two old men carrying in all of their belongings.

“That box has the Wii in it—“ Pete promptly parks the Conjecture Cycle in a panic, but Billy holds onto his shirt to still him.

“White, he’s the Action Man. I  _ think _ he has it under control.”

 

They stand outside for a while. It’s early in the morning. They traveled over night like a couple of idiots, so exhausted they are. Bags beneath their eyes even thicker and heavier than usual. The sky is that dark periwinkle Pete likes. The one that Billy  _ knows  _ Pete likes, because it’s safe before the hot, hot sun. They usually see it when they’ve been up all night working, when they sit on the roof, kicking their feet and tossing debris out into the wilderness.

No more. Now their roof is three storeys up and ornate with flowers grown by a sweet old lady. Now their front door is freshly painted and has a real doorknob. Pete puts out another cigarette. No smoking in the house.

“Are you ready to go in?” Billy asks, staring up at the brick building like it’s the goddamn  _ stargate _ or something.

“Is your mom gonna kiss me again?”

“Every time she sees you, White.” 

Inescapable affection. That’s daunting. 

Before they climb the stairs, they turn to one another. It’s the gentlest of high-fives. Their hands stay pressed for a moment, fingers just barely interlocking before their arms fall back to their sides.

The sun comes up behind them as they shut the door. 


	2. Letters to Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete and Billy settle into the VenTech lab.

They’re the highest ceilings they’ve ever seen. It’s even more astounding, for Billy, standing there, feeling like he’s shrinking. Pants cuffed, tie from the boys’ section of the department store. Pristine, white walls reaching to heaven around him. And Pete, carrying a little box of knick-knacks, looking just as awestruck. That’s a comfort to him, to know he’s not the only one who feels a little in over his head.

“I could get used to this…” Pete muses, places down the cardboard box on the wide, white desk that lays before the giant monitor.

“You’d better,” Rusty warns, spreading his arms as if showing off the premises. “I’ll need you two working ‘round the clock!”

Pete and Billy exchange a sidelong glance. 

“On what, exactly?” Billy bothers to ask, reaching up to pull their new, fancy lab coats out of the box of their personal effects. “You haven’t really told us what we’re supposed to be doing down here.”

“Put that big brain to use, Billy,” Rusty says, poking him on the forehead with one long, skinny finger. “Go wild! I have lots of money at my disposal these days.”

“We’ve heard,” Pete mocks, sliding his arms into the lab coat. It fits like a glove, as it should. He and Billy were so excited when they got fitted for them...giddy, almost, like schoolgirls. 

They get the full tour, learn about all the impressive things JJ left lying around, their necks craned to see it all in its glory. Even Rusty, ever sardonic, sounds genuine in his enthusiasm.  _ State-of-the-art! _ It brings uneasy smiles to their faces, to see him so enamored.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says, striding toward the elevator. He probably has drinking and money-counting to do, Pete figures. He can’t judge though, right? He’ll be in the same boat soon enough, if he works hard enough… “No messing around, boys. I want you two focused on the task at hand!”

Before they can yelp their protests and their questions as to  _ just what he means by that, _ Rusty disappears behind the heavy elevator doors.

“...he still didn’t tell us what to do,” Billy says, quiet though it echoes through the massive empty space.

“Let’s see what JJ had brewing, I guess?” Pete shrugs and turns to the large computer. It looks almost archaic in its mass, like it will spend three hours on an algebra problem and spit out a tiny piece of paper. But it’s quiet and sleek, and Pete finds himself salivating over the chance to use it. “From one little man to another…” 

Billy elbows him for that comment, and then climbs into one of the chairs.

They spend at least an hour browsing. A roomba that reminds you to water your plants. A watering can that reminds you to clean the filter on your roomba. There are some more vague ideas logged in there-- one of them just says ‘water bed but it’s also a dialysis machine.’

“That makes sense, I guess…” Billy says, scrolling past it.

“Why?”

“Oh, um...I guess Rusty never explained it to you. About JJ.”

“He blew up in the void of space, Billy. I got the story.”

“Idiot!” Billy flicks him with his metal fingers, turning his chair to face him. “He was already _ dying _ .”

Pete’s silent for a moment, white brows raised high upon his forehead. 

“Oh…” His posture weakens, and he rests his elbows on his knobby knees. He stays quiet a little longer, placing his cheek in one of his hands. “Are we fucking ourselves? Mighta been the radiation from all this...stuff…”

“You’re gonna chicken out now?”

“Nah!” Pete rights his posture and folds his arms, turning up his nose. “Just concerned about your weak constitution, that’s all.”

“ _ My _ wea _ - _ \- your skin is like paper!” Billy reaches out and pinches one pale pink cheek to demonstrate.

“Hey--” Pete swats him away, albeit gently, and then presses his palm down onto Billy’s scalp. “What about all this, huh? Ya think all that cerebrospinal fluid’s gonna protect ya?”

“Cut that out--!!” Billy punches him lightly in the gut, his fighting interrupted by laughter as he struggles to stay upright in his chair. “At least we won’t be able to tell if the illness is making you pale!”

“Oh real funny--” Pete gasps when he gets the wind knocked out of him, retaliating by standing up, bending down, wrapping an arm around Billy’s neck, lightly grinding his knuckles into the crown of his giant head. 

“A noogie? Are you serious? Are you  _ twelve _ , White?”

“Hey, you started it, pally!” 

There’s some scuffling, some shifting about, some lighthearted grunting as they struggle in vain, but eventually they settle. Eventually it’s both Pete’s arms around Billy’s neck from behind. Eventually it’s both Billy’s hands resting on those thin, pink wrists.

Pete sighs, rests his chin in the soft ginger of Billy’s hair.

“It ain’t so bad, right fella?” he asks, eyes scanning the room. “Not that I’m  _ thankful _ of that rich bastard, St. Cloud, but…”

“Yeah…” Billy tilts his head back some, as if their eyes could meet from this angle. “I didn’t  _ want _ to sell the company--”

“I know, Billy.” Pete tightens his hands on Billy’s slim shoulders. “I know.”

Again, a prolonged, comfortable silence. Even just the squeaking of their shoes as they gently lean from side-to-side can be heard in the vast expanse of the lab.

“...I don’t want you to get sick,” Billy finally says. “So we should be careful.”

“I don’t want you to get sick either…” It’s obvious, to both of them, their lack of concern over their _ own _ health, but they speak it not. _ De facto marriage _ , in sickness and in health, but not out loud. Maybe it’s better that way, Pete thinks. He can’t be bothered to imagine his own voice saying something more sincere and touchy-feely. His back hurts like this, old as he’s gotten, bent over to reach around his partner’s shoulders, but he doesn’t make any attempt to free himself of the discomfort.

Pete grins, leaning his head down. They’re cheek-to-cheek. It would be the perfect moment to be earnest. The perfect moment to ask,  _ what the hell does it mean? Won’t you tell me this is what you want, and nothing other than this?  _ But he falters. He snorts.

“Just gotta find a hazmat suit in your size--”

“Asshole.” But Billy laughs. He always takes it in stride. They both do. Their bickering has become one of those little intimacies, with time.

Pete slides his arms off from around Billy’s shoulders and stands up straight, stretching his back. It’s early in the evening yet, and they’ve gotten nothing done. He figures they ought to fuel themselves.

“I’m ordering Chinese,” he says, fishing his phone out of his jacket pocket. “For  _ science _ .”

“Dim-sum is the cornerstone of discovery, White. Good idea.”

And they continue to browse. Their food comes and they share chopsticks, because they were only given one pair. They take turns tossing fried noodles at each other’s mouths. None of their shots are successful. 

Nothing gets done but more laughter. They accomplish nothing but drifting to the couch to brainstorm. Their pontificating turns to dreaming, their dreaming turns to wild, ambitious speculation about the future of technology. And that, of course, turns into sleepy discourse about nothing at all.

“...cold down here,” Pete mumbles.

“You’re always cold.”

“Yeah, but it can still be--” he cannot stifle the miraculous yawning-- “cold in places.”

Billy sits up.  _ Shit _ , he figures, it’s nothing they haven’t done before. With a sigh, he sidles up the couch cushions and pushes Pete in the belly to get him to move over. Once there’s room, he lays back down, his back facing him once again. He runs hot, like a living space heater. The trailer was so much smaller, so much easier to regulate…

“Better?”

Pete yawns again, shifting to make himself comfortable, and tosses an arm over Billy.

“Yeah...yeah.” 

“Mom’s gonna worry, but--” the yawning is contagious, and Billy’s voice squeaks when he succumbs to it. “I’ll tell her we were working all night.”

“You sure do lie to her a lot…”

Billy bites his lower him. He knows what Pete means, even if he won’t say it aloud. He knows he’s talking about their little charade, how Rose thinks they’re lovers, finds it so sweet, so charming.

“...but…” Pete continues, echoing himself. “It ain’t so bad, fella…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End me! I'm emo! And I still have no idea where this is going to go!


	3. Serious Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete and Billy have a wild night out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the fondest of my writing in this chapter I guess, but I was still smiling the whole time I wrote it.

“It’s gonna be so crowded, Billy…” They’re standing across the hectic streets from Grand Army Plaza, squinting through the streetlights to see the massive swaths of people. Pete feels like a tourist, still. Out of place amidst these people who can cross the street without even looking.

“It’s crowded everywhere, White. At least there will be some good music.”

“Yeah, to your taste. I dunno about these guys.”

He listened to their website for a bit. Local nerds who just discovered proto-punk and claim its sound like Christopher Columbus crossing the ocean. “Derivative.”

“Just unclench for a few hours,” Billy pleads, pressing his metal hand to Pete’s lower back and bidding him to cross the intersection. “You love live music, right?”

“Yeah, yeah…” He does, and he’s not sure why he’s so antsy. Maybe it’s because it’s their first night out since moving, maybe it’s because ever since that night in the lab everything between them seems...quieter. Save for the pounding of blood on his ears. It’s stupid. To feel a flutter in his chest all of a sudden, as if they haven’t been together for years. But that night, when he’d woken up with a cramp in his arm, he couldn’t bring himself to move.

The Plaza is rife with people, all ages, all appearances. That makes the both of them feel a little less weird. Pete kind of glows in the dark, but there are enough flood lights around to drown that out. The crowd, rough and shoulder-to-shoulder, will hardly let them in, so they slide between concert-goers, constantly looking to one another to make sure they’ve not been separated, until they find an empty place beneath the famous archway. It’s a little darker there, farther away from the stage and the blinding light. Colder, too, this first night of fall. Their illuminated by the moon rising behind them.

Billy looks up at Pete. He’s clad in a wool coat and knit hat, hands stuffed in his pockets. He always looks put-together, somehow. Must be nice to have clothes that fit. Must be nice to have a normal head and a handsome nose. But Billy stills his bitterness; Pete’s never made him feel anything but average. Nothing special, but nothing bad. He doesn’t rub his relative normalness in his face. Billy watches as Pete shivers. He’s always fucking cold…

“It’s starting, I think,” Pete says, nodding toward the stage. You can never tell with these avant-garde Brooklyn types, Pete considers. But the stage is soon clambering with young people in their trendy clothes, the confidence they wear on their faces almost alarming. Swinging guitars over their shoulders and taking sips from their pints of beer. Pete sneers. His own youth was far less glamorous… but Billy looks so damn excited, smiling into his plaid scarf and beaming as the band warms up. Pete can’t count the number of times he’s seen that exact face, but he feels like he remembers each and every time. When they first made their company official, when he picked out his Rusty Venture Halloween costume. Looking at that brand new, shiny lab in the Ventech basement… That’s the look that keeps him from complaining.

“Let’s get drinks, Billy.” The concession stand is finally abandoned now that the music is starting.

They each get a glass of red wine in a plastic cup. It would feel weird to drink anything else in the cool weather, but all the college-age kids around them sipping their god-awful IPAs give them looks of disapproval. But they drink it anyway, warmed by the alcohol and the sweet sound of music. They return to the archway, walking close. The wine is bad, and the music is loud. They’re too old for this shit. There’s only one way to make it through.

 

An hour or so passes and they’ve gone back to that concession stand at least three times. Going back for bad wine and more stares. But their grins are wide and their steps are loose, dance-like as they return once again to the archway.

“They’re not so bad!” Pete yells, bending down some so Billy can hear him. He knows his throat will ache like nothing else the next day, but just like every other idiot at this show, he’s made the decision not to care. And poor Billy, he gets drunk so easily.

“I told you!” he yells, grabbing Pete’s sleeve to steady himself as he gets on the balls of his feet. “Let’s—“ He takes another sip of wine. “Get another drink after this!”

 

It devolves slowly, as most of these nights do. They laugh and shout and toss back more booze like much younger men, meandering the streets of Brooklyn, stopping at bars on their journey to the subway station.

It’s quiet on the platform, and they’re leaning into one another for support as they sit on a bench to wait. They’ve got a bottle of wine in a paper bag, squeezed between Pete’s knees to keep it from spilling. They’re a little dazed, tired, but the familiar screeching of the Q train rumbling through the tunnel rouses them.

“Suh-weeeet!” Billy yells, hopping off the bench. “Empty subway car!” Heaven for New Yorkers new and seasoned. The doors slide open and he grabs Pete’s hand and pulls him along. The booze has made him brave, made him not give any measure of a fuck about his behavior.

They stumble onto the train and, stilling clinging to one another’s hands, flop onto the plastic seats.

“Hoo…” Pete sighs, gripping the neck of the bottle and taking a sip. “Haven’t had a night like this since college, Billy.” Probably for the better, but something about the autumn moonlight, the excited grin on Billy’s face...it makes him ignore his best interest.

“We…” Billy pauses to grab the bottle from Pete and take a sip. “We deserve it, White! We’ve been busting our asses lately.”

“You’re damn right we have,” Pete declares, squeezing Billy’s hand in affirmation. It’s like an anchor, that metal contraption, keeping him from feeling dizzy, from needing to squint to see.

There’s a quiet moment where they both just breathe. Rocked by the train toward one another, they curl. Billy rests his head against Pete’s arm, and their clasped hands settle on Billy’s lap.

Even drunk, Billy can see their reflection in the opposite window. Maybe sober, maybe years ago, he’d have balked and shouted and scooted far across the subway bench, but now—

He feels an odd warmth in his chest. An unnamed excitement in his belly that makes him curl his toes inside his shoes. Pete’s eyes are closed, head lolling to the side. Billy guesses the party is over…

After a quiet ride of yawning and shifting against one another, they arrive at their stop.

They amble out onto the above-ground platform, accosted again by the chilly night air and their drunken state. The bottle half-empty, they mumble some agreement about finishing it.

“Shit, White…my mom.” Rose is a very light sleeper, and she simply get worried sick when they don’t come home.

“I feel like a damn teenager,” Pete laments. “But I don’t wanna get beaten with a bat by Rodney again because he thinks we’re robbing them.”

“I have...an idea!” Billy holds up his finger like he’s conceived the most brilliant of inventions. “Whoa—“ He titters, reaching out his arms to cling onto the hem of Pete’s coat. “Okay…I have another idea. Carry me up the stairs because I...will fall down.”

Pete nods, fervent and quick to agree to any scheme that will get them safely to bed.

At the door, Billy climbs onto his back, arms tight around his neck, and they try their best to quietly unlock the door. Wincing, Pete pushes it open, hating how much louder the creaking of it sounds than usual.

“Okay—“ Billy whispers into his ear. “Operation don’t get killed by the Action Man is go!”

Pete snorts, clasping one hand over his mouth. “Or—or, Zero Dark Party!”

“Billy please—“ Pete whispers harshly, into his hand, trying not to laugh. They make it almost all the way up the stairs before Billy decides he just has to make another joke.

“We see the albino in his natural habitat, able to move with the utmost stealth despite the burden he carries, making his way back to his lair to hide from the encroaching sunlight—“

Pete all but yelps, dissolving into a more raucous laughter, and makes a beeline for their bedroom door, struggling to get it open quietly, struggling even more to keep his wheezing laugh silent.

Once behind the door they erupt in giggles, like men much younger than they are. Billy slides off of Pete’s back, hands grabbing at the fabric of his clothes to make a steady descent. But he pulls too hard, too drunk, on Pete’s arm and they both go tumbling to the floor with a loud thump.

More breathless laughter, looking at one another with their eyes wide in disbelief that they’re capable of being so goddamn stupid.

“Shh...sh…” Pete puts a finger to his lips as they roll closer together on the carpet, as if huddling together will keep them quiet. They swallow their laughter as best they can, gripping one another’s hands in concentration. Eventually it dies down, and they sigh, facing one another on the floor, hands in a loose pile.

“Billy…” Pete says, dreamy and drunk, smiling lazily.

“Huh?” His hair’s all askew, eyepatch nearly falling off his head. Pete reaches out and fixes it.

“Cute…”

“You’re drunk.”

“Been...thinking it...even sober…!” Just talking in a complete sentence is a struggle now, his consciousness slowly fading into what might become a blackout. The bottle is empty, spilled out onto the floor. Rose is gonna kill them… “You’re a very...cute…”

Billy’s too drunk to protest. Or maybe just so happy to hear it, he can’t think of anything to say. He rolls into his stomach, sidles along the carpet until he can toss an arm across Pete’s chest.

“Shut up, White.” And, brave still from the wine and the thrill of the moonlight, he presses a harsh kiss to his cheek. Their heads spin, and it’s something like sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think! I’m starting to develop an actual plot for this.


	4. We Could Be Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete and Billy go out of their way to avoid talking about what happened after the concert, but then a bunch of old people force their hand. Tuxedos are worn.

 

They have this perfect way of not talking about the things they ought to talk about. The next day, after their drunken escapade, it was right back to innovation and invention. Right back to Rose’s pancakes and the commute to VenTech. They swore off booze, as they always do. One rough and free-wheeling night and they swear they’ll be good. 

It’s been a few days since what Pete’s been calling ‘the mistake’ in his head. It was his mistake, even though Billy’s the one that... _ did that _ . Pete had instigated it,  _ dumbass _ , spilling his sober thoughts. It was a mistake, horrible and irreversible. And yet he finds himself, sitting in the lab, dazed at the lines of code, touching the spot on his cheek where he’d been kissed. He remembers the smell of red wine, the dry feeling of the caked-on purple on Billy’s lips. He remembers the feeling of the hard carpet on the back of his head. 

But they don’t talk about it. They don’t even act like there’s something to talk about. It’s the same comfortable silence as ever, and Pete’s thankful. Though he finds himself pining beneath all that stubborn denial, the thought of things changing is even worse. He can’t even bring himself to consider what it might be like; all soft and sweet, finally able to look at him the way he wants, the way he  _ does _ , sometimes. Red eyes lidded, a half-smile, dreamy in admiration. Rusty’s caught him a couple of times. Usually knee-deep in doc-tails, he too loses his inhibitions and decorum. Rusty will toss an arm around him and mumble something lewd. God, and it’s only going to get worse now. For as much of an idiot that Rusty is, Pete knows he’s perceptive. Aware of everything but himself. Even if he acts like nothing’s changed, Rusty will know. He’ll take one look at them and--

“Yikes!” The elevator door slides open and there the good doctor is, arms folded across his chest. Pete and Billy whip their heads toward him, ready with denial. “This place is a mess.”

Their shoulders slope, relieved, and Pete closes down the program.

“Yeah...sorry. We uh--”

“We’ve been working so hard we forgot to tidy up,” Billy interrupts, hopping down off his chair and shuffling their array of notes and manuals into a semi-neat pile. “Sorry Rusty.”

“I just want to have  _ something  _ to brag about this weekend,” Rusty warns, sliding a finger along the surface of the desk, looking for dust. “Some Guild and OSI big-wigs are coming over for what they’re so pretentiously calling a  _ symposium _ .”

Pete and Billy both make a face of exhausted disgust. The mere thought of drinking, socializing…

“And we gotta go to that?” Pete asks, mimicking Rusty’s stance, stern and cross.

“Yes,” he insists, pointing a finger at him, poking him in that pale nose. “And you’re not allowed to make a playlist for this one. My last party essentially turned into a Devo-appreciation conference. And don’t dress... _ like that _ .” He waves a hand at both of them, and they look down at their clothes. Billy’s baggy suit, Pete’s flashy pink. “Tuxedos.”

 

\--

“Oh you both just look so handsome!” Rose says, her hands clasped to her chest. “Rodney, don’t they just look wonderful?” She reaches out, lovingly adjusting Pete’s collar. He’s thin and sleek in a black tuxedo and faded-pink bow-tie, of course. Rusty ought to expect him to stay on-brand. 

“Mom, please…” Her fussing could take long enough to make them late… “We have to  _ go _ …” 

“Oh, please just let me get one picture of the two of you!” She pouts, like she knows how Billy can’t say no to it. 

“Alright fine…” he sighs, smoothing down the front of his freshly-ironed jacket. “Just one.”

She shuffles them over to the fireplace, the mantle decorated with Billy’s baby photos and dried flowers from the rooftop garden. In his leather shoes, Billy curls and uncurls his toes, an old nervous habit. She fixes their hair, pinches their cheeks.

“Now Peter, you bend down a bit so I can fit you both…” She hides her face behind her giant old Polaroid camera, waving her fingers to bid him to lean down. “And put your arm around William…”

They glance sidelong at one another. Every time they do anything, go anywhere, she insists on documenting it, pressing them together until their cheeks touch, and until now, it’s been an easy charade to keep up. Before they snuggled on the subway, before they fell asleep in a drunken pile and it felt like the right place to be. Even with the room spinning and their stomachs churning, Billy had fallen into unconsciousness with a grin on his face.

Before they can agree to it, Pete bends down and tosses a lanky arm over his shoulder.

“Now smile, boys!” Rose says, snapping a photo. The flash is blinding, because she can never figure out how to turn it off. “Oh, come on now! You look like you don’t even love each other!”

“ _ Mom _ \--”

“Give us a kiss!” Rodney shouts, ambling in from the next room over. “Don’t be shy now!” 

“Uh, well…” Pete stammers, standing back up straight and pulling some at his collar. “We don’t uh…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Rodney groans, practically stomping his way in front of the camera. “When are you two gonna understand we don’t give a rat’s ass!”

“It’s true, sonnies,” Horace chimes in, leaning in the doorframe and pointing his cane at them. “Now kiss the wee man, ye coward.”

Their mouths hang open and their brows stitch, looking at one another as if standing on the edge of a cliff. Pete begins to bend down, if only because he’s terrified of the _ fucking Action Man  _ threatening to snap his neck if he doesn’t.

“Too slow. Rose, shoot!” That stocky old bastard swings his arms around the two of them from behind and pushes them together. “That’s more like it!”

Their eyes are wide open, their hands fumbling. It’s hardly picturesque, hardly romantic. Mouths smashed together, hair mussed by those calloused fingers. Billy feels dizzy, concussed. But he knows that’s not the reason for his nervous stomach. Once Rodney allows them to part, their features soften. Pete gulps, eyes trembling some as they continue to stare at one another. Their breath feels heavy, the room spins like they’re drunk again. But, sober as a judge, Billy finds he can still be brave. He’s a goddamn superhero! He’s had his memory wiped, he’s gotten attacked by a rabid dog, he’s been knocked out and stuffed into a bag, for the love of god! He reaches up, wraps his fingers around the collar of Pete’s tuxedo jacket, pulling him down a little further.

And this time, their eyes closed, their fingers numb, their ears hot, they kiss in earnest. Sweetly, softly. Rose snaps another photo, but the sound of the shutter is muted by the pounding of blood in their ears. When they part, Billy feels an uncharacteristic warmth to his cheeks and chest. 

“You’ll give an old man a heart attack, lads…” Horace mumbles, miming the wiping of sweat from his brow. “Ye can’t do that in front of your mother.”

“But you  _ said _ \--” Pete protests, back still awkwardly bent, hands resting on Billy’s shoulders.

“Are you happy now, mom? We have to  _ go _ .” With a huff, he grabs Pete by the sleeve and drags him to the door.

 

They travel as they usually do, Billy’s arms wrapped around Pete’s waist as they speed against the wind. They’re quiet as ever, but the radio is turned up loud.  _ Though nothing will keep us together _ \-- As they cross the Brooklyn Bridge, traffic backs up, and they stop. 

Billy turns his head, cheek pressed to Pete’s back, and gazes out at the skyline. He’s never felt anything quite like romance before. Is this what it is?  _ Heroes _ on the radio and your arms around someone? It must be, because despite the chilly air, he sweats beneath the collar. Sighing, he tightens his embrace, presses his palms flat to Pete’s chest. Amidst the noise of traffic, they don’t have to talk about it. He can’t possibly talk about it. No matter how he plans it in his head, he knows it will just sound idiotic coming out of his mouth. He can only love him quietly. 

They arrive fashionably late, twenty minutes, though they aren’t surprised to see three missed calls from Rusty on each of their phones. Standing before the giant tower, they sigh.

Pete jumps a little, feeling a metal hand on his wrist, tugging. His toes go numb, wondering if he’s about to be so dearly kissed again--

“White, look.” Billy points across the parking lot.

“Oh you’ve gotta be friggin’ kidding me,” Pete groans, staring at that gaudy convertible parked illegally in a handicapped spot. “Guy thinks _ restless leg syndrome _ means he gets to park close to the building.”

“I can’t believe Rusty invited him!”

“St. Cloud…” The name sounds like a curse in Pete’s voice, and it tastes just as bad. “What are gonna do, Billy? Is this an arch?”

“Does making me feel like an idiot count as arching?” Billy spits, balling up his fists and marching toward the entrance. “Come on, White. I’m breaking our sobriety.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's kind of scattered, I had to get them to the next phase of the story. I haven't written a multi-chapter fic in quite some time, so it's been difficult to get into the flow of it.
> 
> Left you on a semi-cliffhanger, but you probably won't have to wait all that long for more. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think! I appreciate in-depth comments, if you've got 'em. I'm so glad for the positive responses I've gotten so far.


	5. Gotta Make Way For the Homo-Superior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to make the title of this one funny because uhhhhhh you'll see

They’re quiet in the elevator on the way up, arms folded across their chests, stewing with vitriol. They can’t really reproach Rusty for inviting the guy, but  _ still _ . No amount of money can make him _ not _ an insufferable asshole. Pete and Billy spare one last angry gance at one another, nodding in solidarity as the elevator doors slide open.

Classical music plays softly beneath the dull roar of the guests, all dressed to the nines and rubbing elbows. They’re greeted by a man in a red vest, offering them flutes of champagne on a tray, which they promptly grab and sip. It’s a relief, after days spent sober, and an early evening spent nervous. They both sigh, eyes scanning the crowd. So skillful at avoiding the topic. Billy finds himself almost thankful that St. Cloud is there; it’s a good distraction from the  _ real  _ reason he’s so anxious. He looks up at Pete, those pale lips curled in disgust, clearly looking for their enemy. Even like that, he just looks...angelic. Even in the bright lights of the party, he manages not to look all washed out. Billy, for a long time, has considered that tight feeling in his chest to be envy. That Pete gets to be so tall, so handsome. But it dissolves, it changes. That fluttering in his heart softens, in awe of the sight. He coughs, tearing his eyes away.

“Let’s just find Rusty, White.”

The crowd is massive, loud. Calmer than the show they went to the other night, but still hectic. Pete finds he cannot help but keep one hand on Billy’s shoulder as they make their way. Like support, like the buddy system. But he just wants to be _ there _ . He just wants to be  _ close _ . He tightens his grip as they enter the lounge area.

“Christ,” Billy mumbles, sneering before tossing back the rest of his champagne. “Look at him, schmoozing.” Rusty and St. Cloud are beside one another, sinking into the leather couch cushions, no doubt comparing notes on what it’s like to be drowning in money.

“Wonder what he’s trying to buy this time,” Pete says furtively, letting his hand slide off of Billy’s shoulder and into his own pocket. With his free hand his, too, drinks the rest of his champagne and then sets the glass on the tray as a waiter passes. He feels cool, slick. Like a spy or a total badass from one of those movies he and Billy like.  _ Name’s White. Pete White _ . “Come on, Billy. Rusty’s _ our _ friend. I think we’re allowed to cut in.”

They descend the steps into the sunken lounge, side-by-side and with their heads held high as they can muster. The champagne in their blood does help. Billy knows they’re surrounded by important people, people who can decide their future as protagonists. Maybe get them bumped up a level or two, just by appearing so suave and confident.

“Hmmwell if it isn’t the Quizboy…” That voice makes Pete’s eye twitch. He knows St. Cloud doesn’t hate him quite as much, sees him as an accessory, but god dammit if Pete doesn’t despise the little shit. “And I see we’ve both brought our albinos this time.”

Pi Wai, dressed in a matching purple tuxedo, pays them no heed. 

“I am not  _ his _ \--” He stifles himself this time. Protesting will only give their enemy more fuel for the fire. And isn’t it a lie? Pete  _ is  _ his. In whatever capacity needed. He takes a steadying breath and turns his attention to Rusty. “Ya sellin’ another boat to the guy or what?”

“Oh calm down, White. I was just explaining to your arch-nemesis that what you’re working on is top-secret. Priceless.” Rusty grins and winks, and Pete can’t help but give him a thankful smile. 

“Y-yeah,” Billy says, holding up one metal finger. “And you’ll never get your hands on it!” 

Pathetically, St. Cloud wiggles his way off of the couch and straightens himself out.

“I have no interest in whatever household convenience you’re trying to patent in what I’m sure is a very...hmmdusty basement.” 

There’s some vague noises of protest from Rusty, but they go largely ignored.

“But I am willing to make Dr. Venture a rather generous offer if he’ll give me a seat on his...executive board. You see…” St. Cloud approaches Pete and Billy, pudgy little hands clasped on the gold handle of his cane. “If I have a stake in VenTech I have the opportunity to kick you two out on your asses again.” He grins like a true villain, whitened teeth shining beneath the lights of the party. “Your lives will be just as miserable as they should be. You’ll be forced to wander the city begging for change in your hats with this little...hmm _ freak show. _ ” He looks pointedly at Billy from behind his tacky sunglasses.

“Oh, _ fuck  _ no, pally--” Pete, rolling up his sleeves, strides forward with his fists balled, and drives his hand down onto the top of St. Cloud’s head. The weak little imp groans and falls to the ground, much to the distaste of Pi Wai, who springs to his light feet. 

“White--!!” Billy reaches out to try and grab for Pete, but he’s already pressing one one his fine leather shoes into St. Cloud’s belly.

“You need to shut your fat little mouth, St. Cloud! I don’t care if ya talk shit about me, or about how much money ya have, but ya gotta lay off Billy, you hear me?” 

The large room has fallen silent save for a few offended gasps. But no one intervenes. At least, no one but Pi Wai. He all but pounces on Pete like a cat, silent like he’s stalking. He grabs him by the collar and knocks him to the ground, pinning him into the carpet. Panicking, Pete tries to wiggle out from under him. But he’s already being punched in the jaw. Once, twice, drawing blood. Spattering onto the couch, and he can hear nothing but Billy yelling and Rusty complaining.

“Hck--” His head spins. But beneath his stinging pain, he grins until all he can see is darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> normal brain: pete
> 
> galaxy brain: angry pete
> 
> universe brain: pete getting beat up because he defended his boyfriend and not regretting it


	6. Give Me Your Hands, 'Cause You're Wonderful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Le end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this! I've been thrilled by the feedback I've gotten and this definitely isn't the end of me writing this ship or this fandom.

He feels small hands on his, and an aching in his skull. All over, like his head’s in a vice. Squinting, he tries to orient himself, but the light is far too bright. He must be in the basement lab…

“He’s coming to…” Billy’s voice, softer than usual. There’s that good bedside manner. Always so gentle and kind. “I’m gonna check his pupils again.”

Pete winces as those mechanical fingers stretch his eyelids open.

“Equal and reactive. Get me an ice pack and a bucket in case he hurls.” He hears light footsteps fading toward the exit. And then nothing but the sad sighing of his...whatever Billy is. “White,” he calls quietly, leaning over him, hands on his cheeks. “Can you hear me? Can you hear me calling you a dumbass?”

Billy frowns. He’s seen Pete far worse-off than this, but never on his behalf. He’d be mad if he wasn’t so touched, so endeared. But to see the bruises forming, the blood from lacerations drying...it makes his chest hurt. It forms a lump in his throat.

“Hey fella…” Looking dazed, Pete reaches out and places his palm on Billy’s cheek. 

“Hey…” He gives him a look of sympathy, almost of pity. “How do you feel?”

“Like I got beaten up by a ninja albino.” 

“Then your mental state is good. No delusions…”

Those footsteps grow loud once more, and he feels something cold on his temple. 

“Thanks, Rusty. Could you…”

“Give you two a minute?” Rusty asks, snide and knowing. “I’ve got a party to get back to. And Billy, if you’re going to express your gratitude you should be gentle with him. He’s an  _ injured man _ .”

“Fuck you,” Billy chides, if lovingly. 

It’s quiet for a little while, Billy pressing the ice pack to Pete’s head, checking his vitals.

“What, no gratitude?” Pete says, smiling though it hurts his head all the more. Billy gives him a tired look.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know…” He casts his red eyes to the corner of the room. He feels somewhat sheepish, having gotten so angry. “St. Cloud?”

“Left in an ambulance. Real dramatic.” Billy snorts and leans his chin in his palm. “Hatred had to pull Pi Wai off of you.”

“Did I look like a badass?” He grins wider, cracking open the cut on his lower lip. Billy sighs and presses some gauze to it.

“...yeah.” Bashful, he purses his lips. “Punching our arch nemesis while wearing a tuxedo? That’s some James Bond shit.”

“I know, right?” Pete laughs a little, interrupted by a cough. His features droop some, and he reaches for Billy’s hand. “...I’m sorry. I just...only _ I’m _ allowed to be a dick to you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, because...I uh…” His stomach twists, his eyes grow wide. “Shit--” Rolling over, he vomits a little into the bucket beside the couch. He breathes heavily, glad to feel Billy rubbing between his shoulders. He must be concussed. As long as St. Cloud is, too, he’ll be happy. He won’t complain. Behind the curtain of his hair, he can be more honest. “I can only...get away with it because of how I feel.”

There’s more silence. He dry-heaves a few more times, but nothing comes of it. Billy, strong despite his size, rights him, helping him sit up straight against the arm of the couch. With a soft towel he wipes Pete’s lips of blood and bile, still looking at him with a glazed-over eye. Adoring and thankful, despite how he claims to be mad.

“How you feel?” Billy asks, running one mechanical thumb beneath his blackened eye socket.

“Don’t make me say it, Billy…” he pleads, eyebrows stitching together in worry. If he’s forced to tell the truth, he’ll throw up again…

“I won’t either,” Billy tells him. He hears it, in his voice, in his head:  _ I’ve never loved you more than now and it will only get worse. _ It sounds insane. “As long as we’re on the same page.”

“I think...I know what page you’re on.” He gives Billy a half-smile, straining to collect his knees to his chest, and then turn around, lay his head in his lap. “It’s the one where I beat people up for ya, and you make sure my brain doesn’t fall outta my skull.”

“Yeah, and the one where I don’t have to lie to my mother anymore.” Billy says absently, running a hand over the white swath of Pete’s hair. From his lap, he grins up at him, draping his skinny legs over the arm of the couch. “White, I’d...you know I’d kiss you if you didn’t just puke, right?”

“That’s fair.”

“Just…” Billy looks to the ceiling in avoidance, and Pete swears he sees his cheeks and ears turn a little red. “Brush your teeth soon. Okay?”

Pete snorts. They’re so skilled at lying, at withholding. He’s warmed by the idea that Billy’s eager to be affectionate, but the room still spins and his head still aches.

“You got it, pally.”

 

\--

They take the subway home, Pete chewing on some of the sugar-free gum Rusty gave him to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth. This time, the car is crowded, and they’re smooshed together holding onto the center railing, swaying to keep from falling down. Pete grips the bar with both hands, cheek leaning against it even though he knows better, looking down at Billy. He feels as though they’re alone in a busy place, and he can finally let down that old guard that kept his face from looking enamored. Billy’s the same, one hand hooked around Pete’s arm and a giddy smile on his face. They feel stupid, like teenagers. There’s no doubt people stare, and they can’t even concern themselves with why. Is it because they’re freaks in public? They call themselves that so affectionately. Is it because they’re two freaks, in public, mooning over one another, one of their faces covered in bruises? Surely strangers wonder what the story there is. But it’s New York, so no one dares to ask. They stuff their faces back in their books and phone and newspapers. For them, love is common and everywhere. They see it on every subway ride, every day. 

_ But Billy finds he wants to correct them. This one is special and like nothing you’ve heard of. That couple you saw making out on the R train at three in the morning, they don’t know shit.  _

It’s not all that late at night, but Billy still unlocks the front door carefully and quietly, slowed by the shiver on his spine as Pete rests his hand on the back of his neck.

The old folks are still up, playing poker around the dinner table. This time, thankfully, they’re betting coins instead of clothes.

“Oh, Peter, you look just awful!” Rose chirps mournfully, sliding out her chair and hurrying to him, holding his head between her hands. “William what on _ earth  _ happened to your sweetheart? Do I have to beat someone up?” She coos quietly, inspecting the damage to Pete’s face. “Oh, well he’s still handsome.”

“Mom, I think you’ve had too many glasses of wine,” Billy says, taking Pete by the hand and leading him through the dining room towards the staircase. “He just uh...got into a little scuffle.”

“Oh! He’s such a big strong man, William!” 

“Didn’t know he was such a bruiser!” Rodney shouts down the hall at them.

“Always liked a man that knew how to throw down, lads!” Horace slurs, holding up his glass in a toast.

Pete and Billy laugh sheepishly as they start up the stairs. There’s that usual silence between them, but it’s mended by holding hands. Gently, lazily, as if not ready to commit to it in full. Their bedroom door is open a crack, and inside they find a few polaroids left on the dresser. Shots of them in their tuxes before they looked all disheveled and undone. Billy holds the photos in his hands, biting the insides of his cheeks as he looks at them. To see it, not just feel it, that kiss, makes his toes curl.

“My uh...my mouth is clean, ya know,” Pete reminds him, sitting down on his bed. Billy smirks, tilting his head to the side, and climbs up onto the mattress next to him.

“We don’t have to--”

Before he can get his thought out, Pete turns to him, clasping his cheeks in his hands for a kiss. Lips parted some, exhaling warm breath as if he’s been holding it for hours. Billy, disarmed, sinks into it, arms drifting up to wrap around Pete’s neck.

Slowly they fall onto the neatly-made bed, limbs all entwined, until Pete’s head softly lands on the pillow. They’re unsure how much time passes, how long they spend there exploring one another so _ innocently _ , coyly. Rabid as they feel, giddy as they are, the constant silence between them is understood: they’re just not there yet. It’s too much to jump into.

And so, breathless and enthralled, they fall asleep clinging to one another as if they’ll be torn apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was considering having some big romantic confession and maybe something a little naughty but I just don't think either of them would do that? They'll get there. I want to write more about their relationship progressing in further fics, if y'all would be into that. Again, thank you for reading and commenting!

**Author's Note:**

> My only talents are brick-throwing and frog-being but please comment.


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